These days are lightly understood, so I confuse myself daily, on my actions, my needs and preferences, one of my first trials with a rib of my own, damaged me beyond moral comprehension and as she runs through the forest chasing my entitlement, away, I break down, looking at my success divulged from her absence. But as much as I want to believe of my freedom, I was trapped by our wounds, she followed me and I of her, well I can only hope so. I can only hope that she smells me, when the morning wakes her and God touches her spirit for a full day of activity, or remembers my image when another form consumes her for the best even worse. But letting ropes dwindle above my cerebral of romantic hope, never seemed plausible, the salt grains, missioned by crashing waves, mock the sail’s ropes knocking against my portrait again, again and again. The odyssey, of a child traveling alone, storms of paranoia cover the compass, leaving my navigation solely mental, and only mental.